John was helping at a crime scene when it happened.

It had been a week since Moran had killed himself in John's living room and in some ways, John was almost wishing he'd taken him with him … because while he was beyond thrilled to have Sherlock back, it meant he was trapped in a flat with a bored Sherlock Holmes.

Clearly, something had to be done.

The first step was to try to clear away some of the gawkers outside, so John had put a "thank you for your support" blog post up, along with a reassurance that, despite police presence at 221B that night, he was fine, but that he had no further comment at this time.

He made a point of going out for groceries shortly afterward so the waiting Press could see he was alive and healthy. (He deliberately left his sling at home and bought light groceries so he could walk past them without visible strain to his shoulder.)

But, still, it wasn't like Sherlock could easily leave the flat.

John had been surprised at how content Sherlock had been to lie about the flat the first few days, but he presumed the man was exhausted and grateful to be home. ("It's hardly the first time in the last two years I've been forced to lie low despite the boredom, John. At least the atmosphere here is congenial," he had said when John asked.) But now? Cabin fever was setting in, and Sherlock was obviously starting to feel antsy. Which meant John either needed to get out of the flat or kill his friend—he had a nice, handy grave waiting if they needed it, after all.

Sherlock obviously felt the same way because, today, John had woken to a text message from Sherlock saying that he was running errands. Once John was done laughing (because when did Sherlock ever do his own errands?), it was a relief because it meant he was out. There really was such a thing as too much togetherness.

He had a leisurely breakfast—one that didn't involve trying to convince Sherlock to eat—and glanced at the papers, still touting Sherlock's innocence and moving on to investigating Moriarty now.

Then his phone rang. It was Greg, calling about a woman found bludgeoned to death in her home, and could he come?

Saying he was on his way, he quickly swallowed the last piece of toast and then sent a quick text.

—Greg called. Got a murder, heading to crime scene, so don't worry if I'm not here when you get back.

—If Mycroft gets a move on, it's possible I could join you. SH

John couldn't help an evil grin crossing his face.

—Just give me a heads up? I want a prime position for watching D and A's faces when you show up.

—Consider it done. SH

Feeling cheered and reassured, John left for the crime scene and was met outside by Greg.

"Any new … developments?" Greg asked as John reached for a pair of gloves.

"Waiting on paperwork—crossing 'T's, dotting 'I's. That and dealing with a certain level of boredom. I'm glad to be out of the house," John said

"I thought you thrived on paperwork these days, Doctor?" Donovan said from her place near the doorway. This was the first time he'd seen her since the video had been released, but she was as brash as ever.

"Why? Because I choose to check my facts? In that case, yes, I do." He glanced up at her as she shifted her weight. "Is there something you wanted to say?"

After a moment, she ventured, "I do read your blog, you know."

He turned to look at her, but didn't say anything. If there was something she wanted to say—an apology, an explanation, more complaints—he wasn't going to help.

"I just … I wanted to say that I watched that video—the one you almost got killed for posting. And I was at Baker Street when you were attacked. You … You're a better friend than he deserved."

His eyebrows lifted. "You think so?"

"To let yourself get shot for him, two years after he died? Yeah."

John licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. "You said you watched the video? So you saw that he jumped off a building to save not only my life, but that of your boss and our landlady, too? Then exactly what kind of friend do you think he deserved? Because in my book, that's the kind of friend you do anything for."

He watched an array of emotions cross her face as she gave a reluctant nod before turning away and leaving the room. He sighed and turned back to Greg. "That went better than I expected, I suppose. She was almost civil."

"That video made quite an impression. It spread through the bullpen within minutes of your posting it." Greg gave a laugh, thinking about it. "In fact, if we were late getting to Baker Street to help you that night, you only have yourself to blame. Nobody could tear themselves away, even the people who hated Sherlock."

"Or especially them," John muttered.

"Well, yeah—and don't think that wasn't satisfying, watching them … which reminds me. I wasn't able to make my own video, but I did manage a couple snaps." He pulled out his phone and pulled up a photo of Donovan and Anderson standing gobsmacked in front of a computer monitor, then another of Donovan with one shaky-looking hand over her mouth, and a third of the two of them looking actually devastated. "I don't know if they're more upset about him jumping or about having been wrong, but…"

"Satisfying just the same," John said as he leaned forward to examine the body. "You'll send me copies, I hope?"

"Oh, yeah."

It was silent for a few minutes as John walked around the room, noting the full bookcases and closed windows. Then, just as John was saying, "I don't think this was a murder," his phone chimed. He pulled it out of his pocket and peered at the text, quickly erasing any expression on his face as he showed it to Greg.

—Heads up. SH

Greg gave a short nod, lips barely quirking at the edge as he called, "Anderson, come tell me about the body."

Anderson sidled in, squirming a bit when he saw John. "Oh, Watson. How … how are you?"

John nodded politely. "Well enough, thanks for asking. Yourself?"

"I'm … I'm good. I, er, saw the, uh …"

"The video?"

"Yeah, that's it. I just … I didn't know why he, you know, jumped, and … no matter what else, I have to give him credit for that. He was a better man than I thought he was."

It wasn't the most gracious apology (non-apology?) John had ever received, but from Anderson, it was practically a sonnet of abjection and remorse, so John gave him a nod. "He always was."

"What can you tell me about the body, Anderson?" Greg asked.

The man preened. "Oh, you want a professional's opinion now?"

"I'm sure he does," came Sherlock's voice from the doorway. "But until now he's had to settle for yours."

Anderson's head shot around as he turned to stare at the door as nobody else moved.

Greg cleared his throat as both he and John watched Anderson as he stared at Sherlock. "Well, Anderson? I don't have all day."

"I … What?"

"The body," Sherlock coached. "You were about to give them your professional opinion about how the woman died."

Anderson looked back at John and Greg, eyes wide. "You don't see him?"

"Our victim is a woman," John told him pointedly, trying not to laugh. "I confess to being concerned if you don't know the difference."

"I know the difference," Anderson snapped. "But … you really don't see him?"

John and Greg both turned toward the doorway, eyes skimming right past a smirking Sherlock, who said, "You really should try talking about the crime scene, Anderson, if you don't want to look like more of an idiot than usual."

"Right," Anderson said, looking rattled as he turned back to the body. "She was obviously killed by a blow to the head, likely by an attacker taller than she was."

"Oh dear," said Sherlock as he walked into the room. "You'd think you would have learned something while I was gone. Did you even bother to read John's blog? He's done some excellent posts on deductive reasoning you could study."

"Of course I read his blog!" Anderson snapped, spinning to glare at Sherlock.

"Whose blog?" John asked. "The killer has a blog?"

"No, yours, just like he said!"

"Are you accusing me of being the killer, Anderson?" John asked.

"What? No!"

John pursed his lips to keep them from curving into a smile because, really, this was the funniest thing he'd seen in years. "You just said that her attacker was taller than she was, that you read his blog, and then said my blog."

"I … no…"

Off to the side, Sherlock tsk'd. "There's a reason why speaking clearly is useful, Anderson. Do try to use your words like an adult."

Anderson nodded at him, a little frantic. "No, Dr Watson, what I meant to say was that I read your blog, which is always informative these days, of course, and that I believe this woman's attacker was taller than her because of the position of the blow to her head, so he was probably a man."

"Except it wasn't," Sherlock said.

Anderson's head whipped around and it was all John could do to keep his face neutral. "It was a woman?"

Greg crossed his arms. "Do you need a minute to collect your thoughts, Anderson?"

"What? No. But he said it wasn't."

"I did?" John asked.

"No, not you," Anderson said as he pointed at Sherlock. "Him!"

Again, John let his eyes slide past his friend who was clearly enjoying himself. "Inspector Lestrade?"

"You really don't see him?" Anderson's voice was smaller now, but more frantic.

Sherlock leaned forward, hands folded at his back. "Maybe you should go back to actually trying to do your job and talk about the woman lying dead on the floor. And people tell me I'm heartless." He rolled his eyes.

John gave Sherlock a wink as Anderson bent toward the dead woman again.

"You could really impress them by telling them that this wasn't a murder," Sherlock stage-whispered to Anderson.

"Really?" Anderson's voice squeaked on the word, but he hastily grabbed for control as he turned to Greg and said, "I mean, this wasn't a murder."

Greg was starting to have a hard time controlling his face now, too, and just nodded. "That's what John was saying just before you came in, Anderson. What makes you think so?"

Anderson swallowed, giving John a guilty glance before he looked back at Sherlock, a desperate look on his face. Sherlock, meanwhile, looked gratifyingly surprised, thought John. Apparently he hadn't expected John to extrapolate any of his own blog posts to real, current crime scenes. "Yes, Anderson, tell us what makes you think so."

"Er … There's no sign of a break-in?"

"Are you asking us or telling us?"

"Telling?" said Anderson, looking back at Sherlock.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes again. "Of course there was no break in. She was the only person home when she died."

"So it was suicide?" Anderson said, as John and Greg resolutely kept their eyes on him.

"Suicide?" asked Greg. "That's not something I would have suspected."

"It wasn't suicide," John and Sherlock said at the same time as Greg and Sherlock both turned to look at him, while Anderson glared at Sherlock. "It was an accident, all because she liked to read too much."

Anderson sneered at him. "Oh, you're just making this up."

John shook his head. "It was an accident. Or, well, I suppose you could point a finger at someone, but he didn't exactly mean for it to happen."

"It was a she," corrected Sherlock, "Though otherwise John is quite correct. Why don't you tell him, Anderson?"

Anderson just looked stunned. "It was a she? But … I don't understand."

"Some things never change," said Sherlock, and John had to turn away to hide his smile, though he turned right back when Greg gave him a gentle kick, just in time to see Sally Donovan walk back into the room.

"Sir, the neighbours say that they didn't hear any… Oh my God!" She stopped in the doorway, giving a classic double-take as she took in Sherlock's signature coat and scarf. "Freak?"

A look of relief flooded Anderson's face. "You can see him, too?"

She nodded, eyes wide. "But…" She glanced over to John and Greg.

John didn't think he'd be able to keep a straight face for much longer, but did his best not to give anything away as he looked at her. "Problem, Donovan?"

Say what you would about Sally Donovan, but she wasn't a coward. Instead of gawping at the apparition, she strode across the room with no regard for the crime scene evidence and reached out a hand toward Sherlock. Just before she touched him, he grabbed her hand and said, "Boo."

At her shriek, John couldn't help it. He started laughing, Greg chuckling beside him as he nodded at his friend. "Well done, Sherlock."

Anderson looked stunned. "What? You can see him?"

Sherlock smirked. "Of course they can see me. I'm standing right here."

"But … you're dead," said Donovan, standing with one hand over her heart, as if trying to contain it.

"Well, not technically," said Sherlock. "Legally, though, yes, I was. Apparently coming back from the dead involves an inordinate amount of paperwork." He glanced over at Greg. "Lestrade, good to see you."

"You, too. You look better than you did the other morning."

"John's been looking after me," said Sherlock."

Greg laughed. "Because naturally the man with the concussion and gunshot wound is the logical caretaker."

"It is when he's a doctor and the other one is Sherlock Holmes," said John. "Having the British press corps outside the door didn't help, though."

"Wait…" Sally said. "You knew?"

"Just since the video," Greg told her.

She rounded on Sherlock. "That video … so, it was a fake, then?" She looked furious, as if the guilt she'd felt watching it was his fault.

Sherlock just shook his head, a look of resigned patience on his face. "Of course it wasn't. Everything that shows on that video was real. Moriarty forced me into jumping—it was the only way to save the others."

"But…" Anderson still looked flummoxed. "Then how are you alive? Were you hurt?"

"Moriarty forced me into jumping," said Sherlock, "But he didn't know I'd put plans in place … the jump was real. The landing … not so much. However, it was necessary for his men to think it was real so … I died."

Sally was glaring at John now. "Did you know?"

He held up his hands. "No, honestly, I didn't. Apparently they needed me to be convincing and so didn't want to risk telling me in case I let something slip. Believe me, I've made my opinion on this very clear, haven't I, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock said meekly, though with a twinkle in his eye, and then he clapped his hands together. "The important thing is that we're all back together again. Now, John, you were sadly mistaken in your analysis of this so-called crime scene. I'm really quite disappointed in you. I thought you'd learned something while I was gone."

John shook his head. "So it was female instead of male. Is that really so important, Sherlock?"

"Details, John. It's all in the details," said Sherlock.

"So the killer was a woman?" asked Donovan, just as Anderson said, "I thought you said it wasn't a murder."

John couldn't help the smile on his face at their confusion, but pulled his face back into a sober expression when Greg held up his hand. "Okay, so it wasn't a murder, it wasn't suicide. It was an accident caused by … a woman?"

"Well, a female," said Sherlock, looking over at John. "Want to take us through it?"

John smiled back, relishing the role reversal. "Not a woman. It was her pet cat." He pointed at the bookcase. "The case is overflowing because she obviously loved to read, but her most recent purchases weren't placed securely. She presumably tried to weight the pile down with that marble bookend, but it was still precarious, and when her cat walked across the top at just the wrong moment…"

"…She unbalanced the pile just enough to make it fall as her owner was leaning over, looking at the books on a lower shelf. Purely accidental, since one can't truly blame the cat."

"Female?" asked Greg mildly.

Sherlock pointed to a battered, pink catnip mouse in the corner. "No woman would buy her tomcat a pink toy. Really, John, I'm shocked you missed that."

John shrugged. "I hadn't really had a chance to look that carefully before you showed up, Sherlock. I'll try to do better next time."

He glanced over to Donovan and Anderson, now standing together, speechless, as they stared at Sherlock. "Are they going to be all right?"

Greg gave a look and said, lips twitching. "Eventually, I'm sure, but for now…" He pulled out his phone and snapped a photo.

#

They were barely beyond the police tape when John burst out laughing. "That," he said, "That was almost worth the last two years. The look on their faces!"

Sherlock's lips curled up into one of his rare smiles. "It was Anderson believing I was a ghost, yet still taking my advice on the crime that I think I appreciated the most."

"Can you see him?" quoted John, bursting into fresh laugher. "Oh, that was priceless. My only regret was that I couldn't record it for posterity."

Sherlock's smile grew even broader, and he flicked at his lapel. "Courtesy of Mycroft. I think he wanted to watch as well."

John grinned at the tiny camera. That did it. All was right in the world. Sherlock was back. Mycroft was doing his usual sneaky spy work but making himself useful. Greg's faith was vindicated. Donovan and Anderson were firmly (and hilariously) put back in their proper places, and he was out in the sunshine with his resurrected best friend.

"Lunch?"

"Starving," said Sherlock. They turned into a café further up the block as Sherlock explained that they had a couple hours before the press conference Mycroft had insisted on.

As they settled at their table, John heard a familiar tune wafting through the air and, smiling to himself, he settled in to listen as Sherlock started to tell him about his morning.

"You can be amazing. You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug… I just want to see you be brave."

#

The End.

Note: Oh, good Lord, did I ever have fun writing this chapter. I hope it reads as funny as I thought it was, because I was chortling practically the whole time ... this after laughing out loud in the car last week when the idea occurred to me. Hope you had fun!